DeKok and the Sorrowing Tomcat (17 page)

He pulled up the collar of his coat and pushed his hands deep in the pockets. It was bitterly cold near the narrow river. There was a strong wind and even the relatively placid water between the high riverbanks showed an occasional whitecap. He paced up and down the narrow road and tried to imagine the situation when the Simca had been parked here. Why, he wondered, did they wait so long to get rid of the car? It was four days since the hold-up. Where had the car been during those four days?

Idly he watched the sergeant-major who had placed his official bicycle against a tree and was now approaching the Simca. He watched the big man come near the rear of the car and he observed how the man plucked at something green that seemed to protrude from between the lid of the trunk. The little bit of green became larger and became a green triangle. DeKok watched as if mesmerized. Windt gave a short pull and he suddenly found a hundred dollar bill in his hand.

Hastily DeKok rushed over. Without thought, almost as a reflex, he pushed the lock of the trunk. The lid flew up. Both policemen stared in consternation at the contents of the trunk. Their breath caught in their throats. In the trunk, on a thick bed of money, they found the corpse of Thornbush, the missing Secretary and Vice President of B&G.

16

A strong gust of wind dislodged some of the bank notes from under the corpse of the Secretary and pushed them along in a playful flight toward the tops of the willows. The large sergeant-major rushed after them with wide spread arms. It was a comical sight. Near the tree trunk he stopped and looked up. DeKok pressed his lips together and quickly closed the trunk before the wind could grab more money from the piles under the corpse. A single glance had been enough. Feisty Thornbush was dead, dead as a doornail. Somebody with a cynical twist of mind had placed him on top of his own loot. There was something macabre about the whole set-up, thought DeKok, something devilish. Again he realized how dangerous his prey was, how merciless

Almost in a trance, he walked away from the car and climbed the slight angle of the narrow dike. Then he stopped and looked over the situation from a distance. The various elements stood out sharply. The streamlined, blue Simca with its lugubrious cargo against the wild decor of gray, sweeping, wind-scourged clouds and deformed willows. DeKok would never forget that particular impression. Nor would he soon forget his own feeling of resignation, of despair and acceptance. The uncertain feeling, the doubt, the apprehension about the fate of Thornbush had come true. He wondered if you could have prevented it.

*   *   *

Traffic was slowly building up on the narrow dike. The car from the Dactyloscopic Service, the fingerprint experts, was the first to arrive. The photographer followed shortly thereafter. Next came a small wrecker from the Amsterdam Municipal Police. It was one of the type used to fish cars out of the many canals of the city. After a short interval, warned by an additional call from Vledder, an ambulance arrived, sirens blaring and lights flashing. DeKok would have preferred to see the Coroner but under the circumstances an ambulance was probably the best they could do.

After Bram, the photographer, was finished, DeKok gave the Paramedics permission to place the corpse in a body bag. He watched carefully while they lifted the corpse out of the trunk and placed it in the opened bag on the gurney.

Thornbush looked perfectly groomed. Death had not changed him much. He wore expensive shoes, a perfectly pressed, dark-blue suit and a white, silk scarf, tied like an ascot. His black, gleaming hair seemed unruffled. But a bank note had stuck to his left cheek. Just before closing the zipper of the body bag, one of the Paramedics removed it gently and replaced it in the trunk of the Simca.

DeKok gestured for them to open the zipper again. Then he called Vledder over and pointed at a pattern of hair on the coat of the dead man. The young inspector leaned forward and took one of the hairs between thumb and forefinger and inspected it carefully.

“Cat hair?”

DeKok nodded slowly.

“It looks like it. We'll double check it, of course. But considering that Thornbush is a bit of a dandy, I think the fur on his coat is a little out of place. Strange, don't you think?”

Vledder suddenly looked at him with wide eyes.

“I remember that I had cat's hair on
my
coat in about the same place, not too long ago.”

DeKok grinned.

“Yes, only a few days ago. After our visit to Bent's house. They were from the black tomcat that always jumped on the laps of people when they sat in a particular chair.”

“Yes.” Vledder almost panted with excitement. “Yes, that's when it was.” He moved his tongue along suddenly dry lips. “Do you think that … that Bent's place was the last place Thornbush visited before he was killed?”

DeKok looked into the distance. A sad look on his face. He visualized again the sharp features of the face he had seen near Pete Geffel's grave.

“It's possible,” he said finally, reluctantly. “Of course, it's possible. But it seems a bit early to come to any definite conclusions in that respect.”

Vledder looked closer at the corpse.

“How has he been killed? I don't see any wounds.”

DeKok did not answer. He unbuttoned the coat of the murdered man and flipped the lapels aside. The shirt underneath and the lining of the jacket were red with blood. DeKok looked at it pensively. He lifted the arms one by one and looked at the slender hands. There was blood on the hands as well. Then he closed the dead man's coat again and motioned for the Paramedics to proceed. They zipped the body bag closed, placed the straps around the body and took off toward their vehicle.

DeKok placed a hand on the shoulder of his young colleague.

“I think I'll go with the ambulance, Dick. It seems best. The clothing on the corpse really interests me. I want to keep an eye on it. Also, perhaps I can get an autopsy today. At least I'll try.” He pointed at the blue car at the bottom of the dike. “Make sure it all gets to Headquarters in one piece. And watch the money, be careful with it. Count it in the presence of others.”

Vledder nodded. His face was serious.

“And what else?”

DeKok chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip. He resembled a cow chewing its cud.

“What else … what else? Nothing else, actually. Just make sure the money gets into the safe at Headquarters and have it sealed. Make sure somebody takes a look at the blood stains on the back seat … see if you can get the blood group as soon as possible.”

“All right, and then?”

“Then go back to Warmoes Street and wait for me there. I think it best if we don't do anything until we've had a chance to talk. If something unexpected happens, call me. I'll be in the morgue, or at the Pathology Lab. It depends who I can snare for the autopsy.”

*   *   *

The naked body of the late Thornbush was displayed on the black granite top of the dissecting table in the Police Pathology Laboratory. Dr. Rusteloos leaned forward and looked at the two bullet holes in the left chest. He used a probe to determine the depth of the wounds. After a while he looked at DeKok.

“At least we can determine,” he remarked slowly, thoughtfully, as if begrudging every word, “that either shot would have been fatal. Of course,” he added hastily, “I'll have to do a more thorough examination. It wouldn't do to be too precipitous. But for the time being, you can take that as my preliminary judgement.” He paused, as if reflecting on his words, wondering whether or not he had been too positive. Then he continued:

“In any case, both shots were fired from a relatively short distance. I estimate no more than maybe four or five feet.”

DeKok nodded.

“Through the heart?”

Dr. Rusteloos made a vague gesture with the hand in which he held the scalpel.

“Well,” he allowed, “let's say in the region of the heart.”

DeKok smiled. Sometimes Rusteloos would not even admit to the rain, afraid that the sun might shine around the corner. Nevertheless, his final reports were always accurate and very much to the point. As he said, he just did not like to be precipitous.

“Can you tell me anything about the time of death?” asked DeKok.

The doctor looked at him solemnly.

“Let's say,” he answered carefully, “he's been dead between ten and twenty-four hours.” He made an apologetic gesture. “You know how difficult it is to be more precise. Especially at this stage.”

*   *   *

DeKok was sitting at his desk. The personal possessions of Thornbush were spread out before him. A white handkerchief with a discreet monogram, a comb in a leather holder, a rather small amount of money, a bunch of keys on a key ring, a plastic folder with two airline tickets to Houston, a pocket calendar and a crumpled piece of paper.

Vledder surveyed the assortment.

“Is that all?”

DeKok nodded.

“Everything he had in his pockets. I took the rest of the clothing straight to Dr. Eskes, at Forensic. I especially asked him to investigate the hair on the jacket.”

Vledder picked up the crumpled piece of paper and smoothed it out with one hand, while he kept it against the desk with the other.

“Pilgrim Street,” he read aloud, “number twenty-one.” He frowned and looked at DeKok. “The handwriting seems familiar.”

DeKok sighed.

“It's Flossie's handwriting,” he said gloomily. “It's also her address.” He rubbed his eyes in a tired gesture. “You know,” he added, “Flossie, too, has a black tomcat.”

“A tomcat?”

“Yes.”

“That means that Thornbush could have picked up the hair at her place.”

DeKok nodded.

“And Flossie has a clear motive,” he said.

Vledder looked at him.

“Revenge?”

“Yes, she never made a secret of it. She was determined from the very beginning: She was going to punish the murderer of her fiancé. If Flossie somehow found out that Thornbush was the most likely candidate to take the ‘warning' call from Pete Geffel … then … that could have been enough for her.”

“Enough for murder?”

“Yes, absolutely. Flossie wouldn't have asked for any additional proof. A slight impulse, a dose of female intuition and a desire for revenge … and the verdict is rendered. After all, revenge is seldom the result of cool, clear thinking.”

Vledder stared out of the window. He was oblivious to the noise around them. Typewriters rattled, phones rang, people were being interrogated, a door slammed and on the next desk another detective was trying to take a statement from a suspect that kept pulling on the handcuffs that secured him to his chair. But Vledder and DeKok were a little island of quiet in a sea of turmoil.

“She must have,” said Vledder after a long silence, “must have enticed him to her apartment.”

DeKok rubbed the bridge of his nose with his little finger. Then he stared at the finger as if he had seen it for the first time. He withdrew the finger and raised his index finger in a familiar gesture.

“What do you want? Flossie is an attractive woman, no doubt about that. And we suspect that Thornbush wasn't exactly immune to female temptations. I don't think he would have refused a direct invitation of the alluring Flossie.”

Vledder smoothed the address out once more.

“And we know there was an invitation,” he said pensively, “because of this note.”

They both looked at the note. DeKok's face was serious and there was a strange gleam in Vledder's eyes. It was as if the small piece of paper had hypnotized them into a compelling train of thought. Vledder was the first to break the spell.

“We have to talk to her.”

DeKok nodded silent agreement.

The door opened at that moment and Corporal Greanheather appeared in the doorway. He stared over the heads of the people in the room until he spotted Vledder and DeKok. Carefully he threaded his way through the crowds in the busy room. When he was next to DeKok he leaned over in a conspiratorial attitude.

“Mrs. Thornbush,” he whispered. “She wants to know if you have any news about her husband.”

The face of the gray sleuth fell.

“Where is she?”

The corporal waved toward the door.

“She's on the bench, in the hall. She came to the desk downstairs and asked for you. I asked her who she was. You understand, I was going to give her the brush-off. You've got enough on your plate as it is.”

“And?”

“Well, of course, when she told me who she was and when she told me that you and Vledder had promised to look for her husband, well, that changed things.” He made a gesture with his head and changed his tone of voice. “Isn't her husband the guy you found in the provinces?”

As a native Amsterdammer, Greanheather considered everything outside Amsterdam as the “provinces” and there was the sort of tone in his voice that suggested that if you had to get killed, Amsterdam should be good enough for anybody. No need to go out of town for that.

“Yes,” answered DeKok, aware of the undercurrents in Greanheather's voice.

“Poor woman,” commented the corporal.

DeKok looked at him.

“Did you tell her?”

The corporal raised both hands in the air. A gesture that suggested both outrage and denial.

“No, no,” he answered hastily, “not me. That's not for me. You do it.”

*   *   *

Corporal Greanheather guided Mrs. Thornbush across the detective room floor. DeKok quickly surveyed his desk top to make sure that all the personal possessions of her husband had been shoved into a drawer. Then he met her halfway. His face was serious as he made a slight bow. Meanwhile he watched her face carefully. Mrs. Thornbush looked pale and tired but there was a jumpy alertness in her eyes.

“Do you have news about my husband?”

DeKok did not answer. He motioned for Greanheather to leave and took her by the arm. Gently he guided her to the chair next to his desk. He placed her on the chair with the courtly formality of old-world charm, while Vledder held the chair for her. DeKok wondered how much of her behavior was due to a tightly controlled act. Mrs. Thornbush showed all the symptoms of the “broken woman” in a melodrama. It seemed too pat, too obvious. But then, some people hid their grief behind theatrics.